


Ocean's Error

by lears_daughter



Series: Mirandy Year of Fun & Frolics Bingo Card 3 [1]
Category: Ocean's (Movies), The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Crossover, Established Relationship, F/F, Mirandy Year of Fun & Frolics, One shots mean never having to say you're sorry for not updating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 11:43:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14056263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lears_daughter/pseuds/lears_daughter
Summary: When Debbie Ocean and her crew steal a necklace from around the throat of Andy Sachs at the Met Gala, Miranda Priestly is Not Pleased.(Written for the prompt “crossover”. No prior knowledge of the Ocean’s franchise required.)





	Ocean's Error

**Author's Note:**

> I struggled to come up with a great crossover idea for DWP. Then I saw the trailer for Ocean’s Eight and had my eureka moment. In my head, based purely on that preview, this is how those two worlds would collide. I don’t think you need to have seen the trailer to follow this, but also, if you like DWP, why wouldn’t you want to watch that trailer?
> 
> There’s a tiny reference to Leverage, one of my favorite shows. If you catch it, you get a cookie! (Or, if you’re like Emily Charlton, a piece of cheese.)
> 
> Now complete with a [gifset](http://lears-daughter.tumblr.com/post/172448933657/the-devil-and-the-ocean-gifset) at my tumblr.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Devil Wears Prada or Ocean’s Eight.

Andy hunched miserably in the impersonal, forbidding interrogation room. The glow from the fluorescent light was unflattering; where earlier in the evening she had looked radiant (according to Miranda), now her skin seemed almost sallow, her usual smile conspicuously absent.

“Ms. Sachs, are you certain you remember nothing else about the theft?” That was Detective Warren, a rather surly fellow who’d gotten increasingly grumpy over the course of the long night.

Andy glanced at Miranda, who sat beside her looking about as warm and approachable as a statute of a porcupine. Her lips were tight with rage, her posture stiff. Still, the fluorescent lights couldn’t diminish _her_ beauty. Andy’s heart broke a little more at the thought.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

The detective rubbed his forehead. “And you, Ms. Priestly? You didn’t see _anything_?”

“I am not Andrea’s keeper,” Miranda said in a voice like a simmering volcano. “I didn’t think I needed to watch her every movement.”

Andy’s shoulders hunched a bit further, until they were somewhere in the vicinity of her ears. She’d tried so hard to be worthy of Miranda’s love and trust since they’d first begun navigating the tumultuous waters of this relationship. The thought that one disastrous night might bring that all crashing down brought the sting of tears to her eyes.

“What about your description of the women,” Warren pressed. He flipped open his notepad, reading his own scrawl from earlier in the interrogation. “From what you’ve said, we know at least four were involved. You’ve described them as ‘extremely attractive’ and ‘movie star-esque’. Can you be more specific?”

Andy shook her head. She’d noticed the thieves in the same way she noticed all beautiful women; which is to say, she allowed herself a single appreciative glance before firmly returning her attention to wherever Miranda happened to be. She knew it was silly, knew Miranda wasn’t going to be angry with her for admiring a female figure (probably) (maybe) (better to be safe anyway), but it felt disloyal to do anything else. As a result, she remembered little other than the fact that the women had been strikingly attractive. Perhaps if she’d been paying attention none of this would have happened.

“If that’s all for now, Detective,” Miranda said in a voice that implied _and it had better be_ , “Andrea and I have had a long night. We’d like to go home.”

Andy shuddered at the thought of the conversation that awaited her in the car. Suddenly she hoped the detective would have more questions she couldn’t answer; anything to delay being alone with her partner.

Warren shook his head. “That’s all for now. We’ll get to work reviewing the security footage and the logs from the event. We’ll find the thieves, I promise you that.”

“Hm.” Miranda seemed anything but convinced. She rose gracefully, smoothing a hand over her skirt. “Thank you for your...help...Detective. Do let us know if we can be of further assistance. Come, Andrea.”

Andy followed on numb legs. Her sleek black gown, which had dazzled Nigel, was too thin to provide much warmth as they emerged into the brisk night air. She chafed the skin of her arms, fingers drifting across goosebumps. Her neck felt exposed. She wished for a scarf or maybe just a large paper bag to cover herself.

Roy pulled up to the curb a few minutes later. She wondered whether he’d been driving around the block for the past two hours as they’d been grilled by the police. He leapt from the car, face grim, and when he made to open Miranda’s door first she shook her head. Andy, shivering, barely noticed the exchange as Roy opened her door instead.

“There now, Andy,” he said soothingly, helping her in—assistance she usually rejected with a wry grin. “I think I’ve got a blanket in here somewhere.”

He left only long enough to root around the trunk, emerging with a warm, silk-soft blanket, which he wrapped gently around her shoulders. She shot him a grateful look, catching his hand and squeezing it tightly. Words seemed to be failing her tonight. She felt Miranda’s stare like a dagger between her shoulder blades.

“Raise the partition, Roy,” Miranda said softly, opening her own door and sliding in. The two feet between them felt like an endless chasm.

He shot Andy a worried look, but obeyed. Andy hugged the blanket to herself and rested her head against the window, eyes squeezed shut.

Now, alone with Miranda, the emotions she’d been bottling for the past two hours began to surge and crash inside her like waves against an unforgiving cliff. That twisting in her gut was humiliation; the rock in the pit of her stomach was fear.

She wondered what Miranda was thinking and was glad she didn’t know. All she wanted was to go home in silence, shower, clamber into the very large bed in the guest room (surely she wasn’t welcome in the bedroom tonight), and pull the covers over her head. Maybe in the morning things would look better (though probably not).

Still, there were two words she hadn’t yet said to Miranda, and as petrified as she was right now, she wouldn’t feel right leaving them unspoken.

“I’m sorry.” They came out in a whisper, broken.

Miranda made a strange, harsh sound beside her. “You’re sorry?” she repeated as if tasting the words for the first time.

Andy braced herself for the scathing diatribe that would follow. She’d made plenty of mistakes in her time with Miranda—first as her assistant and then as her partner—but this one put them all to shame. Whatever Miranda said now, as vicious as she chose to be—she’d be right. It would hurt, but she’d be right.

Instead, to Andy’s complete bafflement, Miranda slid across the seat and put her hand on top of Andy’s. The warmth of her touch melted the frost that seemed to coat every exposed inch of Andy’s skin.

“Andrea, whatever do _you_ have to be sorry about?” Miranda said. There was a note to her voice that Andy had heard before, though never directed at herself.

She forced herself to look at Miranda, prepared for that piercing, hawkish stare that always sliced her to ribbons. Instead, she found the other woman’s face soft, her blue eyes intense but warm.

 _Miranda didn’t hate her_. She could have wept with joy.

“I lost a hundred and fifty million dollar necklace,” Andy reminded her.

Now, Miranda’s gaze did darken. She let go of Andy’s hand to touch her throat, a delicate brush against the area where said necklace had resided all evening.

“‘Lost’ is hardly the word. It was stolen, Andrea, through no fault of yours.”

“A _hundred and fifty million dollars_ ,” Andy moaned.

The necklace had been on loan from its owner, a billionaire recluse who lived somewhere in Idaho. Evidently, Mrs. McCartney spent her days double checking the locks on her cabin doors and fervently reading _Runway_. When this year’s Met Gala was announced, she’d reached out to Miranda to offer the necklace, which typically lived behind thick glass and double reinforced steel at the Smithsonian, to grace the throat of “whichever beautiful person Ms. Priestly finds most suitable.” No doubt she expected to see it worn by a movie star or one of _Runway’s_ models. Instead, Miranda had presented it to Andy earlier that evening, her eyes smoldering as Andy’s jaw dropped.

The photographers had eaten it up when Andy and Miranda had taken to the red carpet. This was Andy’s second Met Gala at Miranda’s side—her first since she’d earned her Pulitzer—and no one was surprised to see them together anymore. They’d gone wild for the necklace, though, bombarding Andy with questions she couldn’t answer and praise that made her blush under her makeup.

And now it was gone.

“The money is immaterial,” Miranda said, carefully wrapping her arm around Andy’s shoulders.

Andy let her head fall to rest against Miranda’s, cherishing their closeness. “How can you say that?”

“The necklace is insured. The only entity that will suffer for this is I.Y.S. Insurance, and frankly, I’ve never cared for them.”

“Then why—” Andy cut herself off. She inhaled Miranda’s scent, letting it swirl around her lungs. “You were so angry, before. I thought…”

Miranda’s arm tightened around her. “I _am_ angry, but not at you. These women, whoever they are—” (she said _women_ as if she wanted to use the kind of word one did not say in polite company) “—concocted a meticulous plan to steal the necklace. Had they taken it from anyone else, I might have been impressed. No, Andrea. I am angry because someone had the audacity to turn you— _you!_ —into the victim of a crime.”

That odd note was back in Miranda’s voice. Andy recognized it now, from the time Cassidy had broken her wrist playing soccer. It was the sort of worry, she realized, that came only with unconditional love.

That realization washed away most of Andy’s trauma from tonight, leaving her oddly serene.

“I’m okay,” she said, warmth toward this woman suffusing her. “They didn’t hurt me.”

Miranda pressed her lips to Andy’s forehead. “They could have,” she whispered. “They got close enough to remove a piece from around your neck. They could have harmed you, Andrea.”

Andy pulled away to straddle Miranda, looking her in the eye to reinforce her message. “I’m fine, Miranda, really. As long as you’re with me, I can handle anything.”

 _A hundred and fifty million dollars,_  a tiny voice giggled hysterically at the back of her mind. She shushed it.

Miranda still looked dubious, the tiny wrinkles around her eyes creasing as if she were in pain, and so Andy leaned in and kissed her, a gentle brush of her lips against Miranda’s.

Miranda made a rough sound and dragged Andy in for a much deeper kiss, one hand on Andy’s ass, the other against the back of her neck, her tongue slick and hot against Andy’s, her mouth hungry.

They broke apart to breathe and then went back at it, Andy making little whimpering sounds, Miranda letting out moans that went right to Andy’s core.

When they had to separate again, Miranda groaned, “The things I was going to do to you tonight, Andrea. I had _such_ plans for that necklace.”

Her hand was under Andy’s dress, doing wonderful things. Andy ground down, panting. “We’ll improvise.”

Miranda grinned fiercely, her eyes dark, and did just that.

* * *

Two months later, Andy received a peculiar piece of mail. It came on heavy card stock and was written in two different hands. The letter said:

_Dear Ms. Sachs,_

_I am writing to apologize on behalf of myself and my compatriots for any discomfort you may have suffered as a result of our actions. Our target was the necklace only. We meant no harm to you. (It looked lovely around your neck. We were almost tempted to call the whole thing off when we got a look at you in person.)_

_It has been brought to our attention that you were quite devastated the night of the Gala. As an apology for ruining your evening, please enjoy the enclosed gift. (Perhaps you can wear them to your next party. We’d simply love to see you in them.)_

_With warm regret,_

_D.O. (and Lou)_

She shook the envelope and out fell the largest pair of diamond earrings she’d ever seen. She gaped at them.

“Miranda!” she called.

Miranda emerged from the bathroom, toweling her hair. “Yes, darling?”

Andy tore her eyes away from the distracting sight of her partner wearing only a towel to thrust the letter and diamonds at her.

“Ah, yes.” Miranda seemed unsurprised. In fact, she looked oddly satisfied, an expression she usually wore only after making love.

Andy frowned. “Did you have something to do with this?”

Miranda smiled. “They aren’t as bad as the police made them out to be, this Debbie Ocean and her friends,” she said lightly. “Once I tracked them down for a polite word, they were entirely reasonable.”

Andy’s eyes narrowed. “Miranda...what did you do?”

* * *

Anchored just off shore in the Aegean Sea, Jacqueline Follet’s yacht went missing.


End file.
